


Holiday in Cornwall

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Devil's Foot, First Time, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:21:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Granada production of "The Devil's Foot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday in Cornwall

I have never failed to marvel at the resiliency of the restorative powers commanded by my friend Sherlock Holmes. When he was involved with a case, he would often go long periods of time in a whirlwind of activity, during which time he slept very little and oftentimes would eat not at all. He claimed that such activities as food and sleep were distracting to his unique mental functions when he put all his deductive powers to solving a problem. When he was finished, he would resume his normal dining and sleeping schedule as if nothing had interrupted them. 

At such times, however, it was his mind, that uniquely precise reasoning instrument of his, that suffered from all the symptoms of physical collapse. The lack of sharp mental activity produced a profound depression in my friend. For days after a case was finished he would loll on the couch in our lodgings at 221b Baker Street, uncommunicative save for listless responses to newspaper articles I read to him in an effort to pique his interest, or for the melancholy scrapings of his violin. In these black moments he would turn to the syringe and the infernal lethargy of his thrice-daily injection of a seven percent cocaine solution, a habit I thoroughly despised and of which I tried to break him every chance I could. That he patiently bore my admittedly incessant haranguing about his loathsome habit I can only ascribe to his profound tolerance and acceptance of my friendship. 

At the time of which I write, Holmes's reserves were at the very portals of collapse due to overwork and nervous stress. His doctor had prescribed a holiday to stave off a breakdown, and I had gone with him to Cornwall to ensure his convalescence. Instead, both of us were drawn into one of the strangest murder cases we had ever experienced, one which the local papers called "The Cornish Horror" and which I published under the title "The Adventure of The Devil's Foot." Mysterious deaths, madness, terror, and infernal drugs merged into a maze of personal horror for us both, at a time when my friend was most vulnerable. I was terrified that the Tregennis murders would be the final straw that shattered his health past all repair. 

I have never been as frightened in my life as when I held Holmes down on the ground while he thrashed and screamed in the throes of the Devil's Foot root that had brought death and insanity to four other people–a drug he had insisted on testing on himself to test his theory. Nor can I forget the relief that washed over me when he stared at me, recognition replacing the madness in his eyes, and his joyful shout of "John!" – the first time he had ever invoked my Christian name. And I had never before felt such anger at him as when I berated his precipitousness, there as I held him on the ground; had he not been so physically shattered by the drug I think I might have struck him in my rage at his foolhardy behavior. I was barely appeased by his shaken and profound apology. 

Now, as we returned to our lodgings from making our farewells to Dr. Leon Sterndale, I feared a final collapse of my friend's nervous system was imminent. Yet here was Sherlock Holmes bounding over the ground in an attitude of lighthearted abandon. Effusive as he never was after the end of such a horrific case, he regaled me all the way with an oral monograph on geological differences in various Cornwall locales–the differences that had helped him find the trail of the murderer. Despite my apprehension, I found myself enthralled by his conversation all the way back to the house. 

It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached the cottage where we had been staying. The sun had finally appeared from behind the gauzy clouds, and no wind stirred. 

"It's a beautiful day, Watson," Holmes said jovially. "Have the housekeeper make up a basket lunch. Heigh-ho, we'll eat outdoors today!" 

Eager to encourage this good mood and pleased at the prompt return of his appetite, I complied with his wishes, and within an hour we were picnicking on the grass outside the cottage. 

Holmes did not descend from his merry plateau. He chattered on any subject that came to his mind, and when he did not speak he was humming. At one point he entertained me with a rendition of some German aria in a husky and not unpleasant tenor. 

I have never seen him in such a mood before. I had no wish to comment upon it, fearing that a reminder would cause Holmes to revert to his usual depressive state after a case. What could be the cause of such lightheartedness after such a horrifying series of murders–indeed, after he himself had taken a taste of the deadly madness? 

_"Think, Watson! You know my methods - apply them!"_

It could not be nervous energy that kept him going–Holmes had been on the brink of physical collapse before his Cornish holiday had been interrupted by the first murder, and all his reserves were exhausted. 

_"Sherlock Holmes is cheerful...which means – Sherlock Holmes must have a case!"_ My own words at some other time, and I had correctly deduced the cause of his cheerfulness then. But I had been with Holmes from beginning to end on the Tregennis murders, and knew of no intervention by police or other people with another problem for my friend's attention. We had received no telegrams or letters since our arrival in Cornwall (Mrs. Hudson having vowed that not a single missive would interrupt Holmes' convalescence), so he could not have received any entreaties by post. 

Sherlock Holmes had no case...yet there he was, an arm's length away from me sipping tea, humming a ditty, and as blithe as a young man in love. Indeed, if it were any other man I would instantly have deduced an affair of the heart. 

But that could not be the reason for Sherlock Holmes' mood. That could never be the reason. He had said himself not two hours before that he had never loved. At the time I had been more interested in what he had been saying about Dr. Sterndale's need to avenge the death of his sweetheart (which had led to the second Devil's-Foot murder). But now those remembered words filled me with a pity I had never before felt for my friend. 

Many years and another wife later, I can recall that first love I shared with my own dear Mary Morstan and the way it had enlivened my existence for an all-too-brief length of time. She had been brave and beautiful, kind and gentle and generous. She had rejoiced in the loss of an inheritance, because it had allowed a penniless army doctor to propose to her without shame. Her death from the same degenerative heart condition that had killed her father, a year after the presumed death of Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls, plunged me into an abyss of the soul as deep and unassailable as that Swiss cataract. To this day I cannot bring myself to think of those two years before Holmes' return – surely the blackest period of my entire life. And yet I could live those years over again, if that had been the price for the love I had known with my Mary. 

Holmes had never known that sensation–most likely never would. His general distrust of women–and the casual aside to me once that the most intriguing woman he had ever known was hanged for poisoning two children–would prevent that. 

Irene Adler was _the woman_ to Holmes–the only person who had ever outwitted him, a beautiful and noble creature his equal in every mental facility. What Holmes felt for her would never be the blind blithe madness of romantic love; rather, it was the regard of a professional toward a respected colleague–an unusual and unnatural relationship between a man and a woman. 

So, no–my friend was not in love. 

I held my cup out; Holmes proffered the teapot, and I sat back again, pondering my findings so far. It was a small mystery, but one I fully intended to solve by myself. 

So for the next two days the master observer was himself observed by his humble chronicler. I did my best to act as if nothing unusual transpired, and gathered my data as closely and carefully as a chemist measures and records each reaction in a test tube. 

While I can say with no false modesty that my reasoning powers could not begin to approach those commanded by Sherlock Holmes, I was also sure that my own observational ability was nonetheless sharper than that of the everyday man on the street, for two reasons. Firstly, my long years of association and close living with such a brilliant observer as Sherlock Holmes could not help but sensitize me to the methods and applications of my friend's abilities, to a point where I could startle others by my own small deductive abilities. As Holmes himself once said of me, "It may be that you do not yourself possess genius, but that you are a mirror reflecting the genius of others." 

Secondly, my recording of my friend's various cases had caused me to become much more alert and aware of what was said and how people looked, that I might more accurately write about them. I have been told the same thing by a journalist friend of mine who has tried his hand at fiction a few times himself. (The man is also a poet– the _Strand_ recently published an ode he wrote to his regiment's Hindoo water-boy, of all things!) 

Holmes did not sink back into the morose quagmire in which he had arrived at Cornwall, much as I feared such a relapse. His appetite remained healthy–indeed, he seemed visibly to gain flesh in a mere 72-hour period. He slept late, his wont when not on a case. He no longer needed prodding from me to go on walks and observe the countryside. All in all, there was nothing about which his personal physician could complain. 

It was when I abruptly walked into the sitting-room the morning of the second day to have Holmes look up from his paper and nod before resuming his reading that I realized the true difference in his deportment around me. I sat down and picked up the novel I had been reading, and pondered Holmes' behavioral changes since the case's end. 

When we had first settled into the cottage, I had come upon Holmes in the sitting room in much the same fashion, to be met by a spur of activity on his part, then careful, casual normality. He had thrown his leg across the table, but not before I saw what I had expected to see him hiding so frantically; his cocaine syringe. I had said nothing then, had not even given him a reproachful look. My grief could not be expressed in words or looks–and he had already heard and seen everything I could possibly say on the subject. 

_But he wasn't hiding anything anymore._

Sherlock Holmes was not hiding anything when I entered a room, made no effort to act as if nothing was wrong. 

I began to wonder if he had stopped his cocaine usage. 

I was careful–another trait I had learned from my friend. I waited till he went for his morning walk before inspecting his personal articles. I found several empty vials, days old, but no fresh supplies of the drug. His syringe was nowhere to be found–not in any of his usual hiding places. 

I reread the worn article I had taken from the Lancet about the chronology of symptoms exhibited by someone ending prolonged cocaine use. If he had been going through withdrawal pains at the height of the Devil's-foot murders, the concentrated mental activity and the excessive horror of the case would have kept him from the profound pain and depression that characterized one stage, or would have disguised it to all eyes–and the frenetic activity of another stage would have been disguised as his usual single-mindedness when he was hot on the trail. 

I re-inspected my notes taken for the case, and counted backwards. I grinned to myself when I had finally uncovered the chronology. 

When Holmes returned, I suggested another outdoor luncheon, on the picturesque cliffs that surrounded our cottage, and he agreed at once. 

We lay some distance from the crags, surrounded by the salt air and the cries of the birds. Holmes had just finished expounding on the various footprints he had been disentangling on the road as a diversion on his walk, and a lull appeared in the conversation. 

I refilled my teacup. Then I said casually, "I really must congratulate you, old fellow. You have done an admirable thing. It is no light undertaking to rid oneself of a drug habit. Your nine-day cocaine deprivation has done you a world of good." I took a sip of tea. 

Holmes started, and stared at me. I met his look squarely, and watched the sober gray eyes suddenly sparkle as he burst out laughing. I joined him, not in any mirth but in pure joy. I had outwitted him! 

"I never get your limits, Watson," he gasped, and reached over to pound my back. "Your deductive powers are now quite beyond reproach!" Just as I felt myself physically swelling with pride, he added with a chuckle, "I almost hate to tell you. It's been 10 days, not nine." 

"All the better, old man," I said heartily, not disappointed in the least. "The longer you have gone without cocaine, the better for you!" 

And for a full fifteen minutes pure delight reigned. I may have hummed some music-hall ditty myself. I was glowing with pleasure at having my deduction proved correct. Holmes had ended his detrimental habit by himself! 

When I finished eating, I decided to take a walk around the luncheon site to stretch my legs. Holmes was still busying himself with the cold pheasant (his appetite no doubt invigorated by the sea air), so I got up and strolled around the top of the forbidding cliff that jutted into the Cornish sea with so many others. Sea birds wheeled and cried, diving into their cliffside aeries high above the furious lashing of the waves against the rocks. One bird dived nearly straight at me, dipping below the horizon just at the last moment; its nest must be a matter of mere feet below the cliff edge. Full of curiosity, I strode to the very edge of the crevice where the bird had disappeared. 

A shriek of terror sounded behind me, piercing to my heart. Holmes! 

"No! Get away! Get back!" he screamed. 

I whirled, heart pounding, to find my friend bracing himself against the ground, reaching in my direction. His face was contorted with fear. 

In three steps I was at his side, terrors racing through my brain. "Holmes! What is it, what's wrong? Are you well?" 

He remained where he was, braced across the luncheon things on all fours, eyes wide with terror, teeth showing behind drawn-back lips. He was shaking. 

I knelt beside him. "Holmes...Holmes, what is it?" I gripped one thin wiry arm and shook it gently, laying the other hand across his neck to feel for the carotid pulse. Uppermost in my fear-focused mind was the Lancet article which, among other things, connected prolonged cocaine usage to heart failure. "Tell me!" 

"Cliff," he whispered, the terror fading from his face. He almost collapsed, but caught himself and resettled on the grass. He seemed oblivious to the overturned dishes and tumbled cloth he had caused in his attack. "The cliff, Watson. You were too close." 

I was astonished–and not a little worried for my friend. 

"Holmes," I said gently as I set the luncheon things to rights again, "I was only going to look at the ocean again. The way we did the morning the Tregennis brothers were carted away to the asylum, on this very road." 

He was silent, his head bowed. "Of course. Forgive me, my dear fellow. I foresaw more danger than was there." 

But there was more to it than that explanation. Sherlock Holmes did not lose control so easily over concern for my safety. 

"Why did you cry out like that?" I asked, curious. 

But he was silent. For the first time in many days he was radiating the invisible and impermeable screen about him which meant he did not want to be questioned. 

I turned away, my mind a sudden whirlwind of confusion, the pleasure of my deduction forgotten. There was something new to deduce here, something far less pleasant than my first mystery. 

I soon learned the answer, and not through any deductive powers of mine. That very night I was awakened by cries of terror uttered by my friend during a nightmare. 

Sometimes in our Baker Street lodgings, I had been aware of Holmes' uneasy sleep, but only when I was already awake did I hear the whimpering cries he sometimes made amidst unpleasant dreams. I no longer attempted to rouse him during such occurrences; the few times I did so, Holmes would favor me with an icy remark to the effect that I was not his mother, then roll over and promptly return to sleep. 

But never before had his terrors actively roused me from sleep. This time his cries were the sounds he had made writhing in the grip of the Devil's-foot root. If indeed they were the same horrors revisited, I could not let him continue to suffer, when a cold remark was all that I risked. 

I went into his room in pitch blackness–the cottage did not have gas lighting, and the night was very dark, it being a new moon. From what little light there was, I could see that Holmes had flung the bedclothes from him in his gyrations. 

I felt my way to his bed and took hold of his shoulders, shaking gently, urging him to wakefulness with my voice as well. He jerked, gasped, then lay flat on the bed taking deep breaths. 

"It's all right," I said, trying to cover my own fear at his dream's ferocity. "It was only a dream." 

He was still gasping hard, almost sobbing in the way he drew air into him. He took one long, deep breath, and exhaled it. "John." 

I could not see his face clearly in that darkness; I did not have to. In that one word was all the gratitude one human being can feel for another. My heart was full at this expression of his gratitude and his trust–it was now the second time he had called me by my given name. "Yes. Yes, it is I. And I must find out why you are so terrified. 

"This dream–does it have to do with what happened this afternoon, at the cliffs?" 

"Yes." No hesitation now in the hoarse voice. The terror of that recent dream had apparently frightened him into revealing his secret. 

I felt around for a chair, found none at hand, and sat on the bed's edge. "Then tell me." 

"The nightmare is the same as what I saw under the influence of the Devil's Foot Root," he said flatly. "I am struggling with Professor Moriarty on the edge of Reichenbach Falls. Then I am falling down the cataract, down toward the rocks. I fall and fall, and I know I will die. I hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me from the bottom of the chasm where I am falling." 

"Good God," I whispered, appalled. Yet I was also somewhat relieved. His thrashing was not caused by any damage to his brain; it was merely Holmes acting out his dreadful fall. 

"Watson, forgive me for the fright I gave you this afternoon." From the sounds made, and the movements in the bed upon which I sat, I could tell Holmes was moving to sit up with his back against the headboard. "Since my experience with Dr. Sterndale's pharmacopoeia, I seem to have become unnaturally sensitized to heights." 

I thought for a moment, then added grimly, "Especially when those heights are rocky crags over violent waters." 

He said nothing. Perhaps the movement in the bed was more pronounced for a moment, as if he suppressed a shiver. "The drug... I was never more terrified in my life. I thought I would die of fright." 

"You very nearly did." I tried to make my voice stern to show my anger, but it came out in a choked whisper. 

"You saved me, Watson," he whispered. "You saved me." 

I could not have said anything just then without giving myself away, in voice-tone if nothing else, so I kept silent. When I could speak again, I said, "You have stopped taking cocaine. I could not ask for a better expression of your gratitude. I think that is the one thing I would have asked of you in return, and you have already given it to me." 

There was a long silence on his end of the bed. Then he said quietly, "I–don't think I can return to sleep immediately." 

"Not after that dream you just had, certainly." I knew what he wanted, and forestalled his asking. "I wouldn't mind staying here in the least." 

We talked for nearly an hour. It was a conversation such as those we often had on foggy London days when no one came up the stairs to seek the assistance of the consulting detective. The conversation was a rambling one, dealing with the news in the agony columns before we had left, a letter from an old school chum of mine, Holmes' suspicions of a connection between his brother Mycroft's doings and changes in our foreign policy. There was nothing in it that was different from any other rambling conversation of ours. The strangeness of it all was that there was nothing strange, save that it was being held in utter darkness so that we could not even see each other's faces; nor did either of us light the room. 

I say there was nothing strange in the conversation in the dark, just as there was nothing odd in a frightened man and woman holding hands in a strange house while a mysterious death was being investigated. And yet amidst such ordinary things does love enter the landscape of one's heart. So it was with Mary Morstan, whose hand was in mine in that awful house of death. So it was now in the dark room, in the aftermath of horror, that I found what could only be the fullness of love in my heart for the owner of that shaken voice. It seemed to fill me; I was greatly astonished at its strength and durability. I let it fill me, and kept talking to its object. 

But finally Holmes' voice was punctuated with a huge yawn. "Ah. I think I can go to sleep again." 

I stood up to let him resettle himself in a sleeping position. "Then I'll leave you to your rest. Good night, old fellow." 

"Mm," he responded sleepily. "Night, Watson." 

I returned to my own bed and fell asleep almost immediately, warmed by the newly-discoverd glow inside me. 

We both slept late, and went for a long walk after dinner, away from the houses where the Tregennis murders had occurred. The sea roared to our right, and I kept myself between Holmes and the cliff-crags, lest their proximity incite his panicked fear again. The warmth that had inundated me last night was still within me, stronger than ever. 

Romantic love manifests itself with symptoms that mimic a deep sickness; it produces loss of sleep, of appetite, of peace of mind. When denied, it can turn pathological. Abe Slaney, the American gangster whose crime society used the dancing-men code, hounded his former intended, terrorized her, then killed her beloved husband, causing her to attempt suicide–all because he said he loved her. Romantic love is very much a sickness that is sweet for a very short time and bitter for a very long time. 

There is the love of family that is as sustaining as bread and water, and as plain and unnoticed as those lowly items. Yet which of us can live without them? 

There is a kind of love that is its own reward, that brings lightness and joy in and of itself, that gladdens every waking moment. It is as if a chamber of the heart has been opened that its owner never knew about before. It has more to do with the discovery that humans are capable of this love, than with the object of it. It rejoices in itself, and can survive in unrequited happiness for an extended period of time. 

Such was the discovery I had made in myself. I realized for the first time that my attachment to Holmes was stronger than the one I had had to my own brother Henry, stronger than that to any of the old schoolfriends I had known for decades. Indeed, in its depth this feeling came uncommonly close to the love I had shared with my wife Mary. I worried, briefly, for I had never known anything like this to be accounted for between other men; yet I could sense nothing womanish or weak in the regard I held for Holmes. 

I did not need reciprocal proof from Holmes; I had had it the moment he realized he was safe from his nightmare, and had called me by a name not even my closest schoolfriends had used. At that moment I had labeled the sound of his voice "relief." I gave it its true name when I discovered the feeling myself. 

I felt relief, myself, when Holmes evinced no further terror of the crags that afternoon. Either he was over his drug-induced terror, or he was concealing his reaction; I preferred to think the former answer was correct. 

He looked well; better than when he had first arrived in Cornwall. His color was up, he had gained weight, and the gaunt look that had haunted his features the last months was gone. The sea air, the solitude–and, loath though I was to admit it, the mental challenge of that dreadful case–had wrought a change that pleased me, both as a doctor and as his friend. 

We did not talk much on the walk; a companionable silence reigned instead. This, also, was no different from the quiet times on Baker Street, when often the only sound to be made for hours was the rustle of pages and the drawing of pipes. 

Supper was another companionable silence. Holmes was humming one of his own compositions, and his fingers twitched as his voice made some alteration in the tune. I knew he would require solitude with his violin when we returned, as he had not brought the instrument with him. We retired early. 

An urgency roused me in the night. But after I had availed myself, I could hear a faint whimpering from Holmes' room. This time I did not hesitate in going to him and waking him from his abominable dream. 

He gasped for breath. "Watson?" he whispered. 

"Yes, it is I, old fellow. Now go back to sleep," I whispered also, and turned away to let him quickly return to his repose. 

"I'm sorry I awakened you," he said softly. 

I turned back. "You did no such thing, Holmes. I was already awake. It was only that first time you woke me up." Perhaps, again, he did not want to fall asleep right away, and I sat on the bed. "Was it the same dream?" 

He drew a breath. "Yes. But–it did not seem as severe as before. I was climbing the stone crags of Reichenbach, then I slipped and fell. I did not hear or see Moriarty. I thought that this was perhaps a dream, that I would awaken. I was not afraid of dying." 

"That sounds better," I said. "It is still a nightmare, but not as terrible as the one the drug gave you." 

"Yes," said Holmes. "This is more in keeping with the dreams I usually–" Sudden, dead silence. 

But I had learned enough. So that was the cause of his unpleasant dreams. I leaned forward, my need to find that pain and remove it stronger than my regard for his privacy. "You have been having nightmares about Reichenbach ever since your battle with Professor Moriarty?" 

Silence. 

"Holmes, I still remember how anxious I was when you described how you climbed up the crag to escape Moriarty's gunmen. And that was only when you told me about your escape. I was not the one in peril." 

A long silence; then a quiet, beaten voice I barely recognized as belonging to my friend. "The drug merely took what was already there in my brain, and amplified it. It is a weakness, a deficiency. I have had it ever since that day." 

"A deficiency? Your nightmares? Holmes, you'd be inhuman not to dream about that dreadful incident!" 

"No, not my dreams, Watson. My..." He said it quickly. "My fear." 

I was stunned into silence; but then I knew what he meant. "Your fear...of heights." Surely no one else had ever been trusted with this information–not even Mycroft. He sounded so beaten, so lost. I could not let that continue. 

I rested my hands firmly on his shoulders. "Holmes...Sherlock." I felt the small jolt beneath my hands. It seemed that this holiday was a time for firsts. "If you think I would think the less of you for this," I said, and gave him a little shake, "then you do not know me at all." 

I felt him relax. And I really could not help it; I pulled him closer and hugged him. I feared to hear something cold and distancing that would have made me retract. But then the wiry arms went around me as well. For a long time we sat thus. Was he really learning, for the first time, just how much he could trust me? 

"I'll stay here with you," I promised when we finally disunited. "You won't have any more bad dreams tonight." 

"You'll get cold," he protested. 

"Nonsense," I said firmly, "you've plenty of room. Move over, and give me one of those pillows." Now I really felt as if I was a boy again, sharing a bed with Henry and talking with him long past bedtime. I had forgotten how warm and cosy it was to sleep over with a friend. 

He was not as comfortable; he had not slept with Mycroft, I deduced. Yet how many times had we taken turns sleeping whilst keeping watch all night for a case? 

"I'd say this is a good deal more comfortable than that shed at the Roylott place," I said. "Warmer, too." 

I could sense him relax beside me. "Yes. Yes, you are quite right." From then on he was quiet, comfortable. I lay close by and sank into profound slumber with no further disturbances from the sleeper beside me. 

The next day was very much like the one before, and the one before. By afternoon we both knew what we were going to do the next day. There is a place inside you that lets you know when it is time to resume your life, when the lull is over. So I agreed when Holmes said, "Well, Watson, I am sure Mrs. Hudson has thoroughly disrupted my files by tidying our lodgings. It is high time we return to Baker Street and set them back to rights!" 

We spent the afternoon getting our things in order, and notified the driver that his services would be required the following morning; I also sent a letter off to the man who had covered for me in my practice, informing him that I would be returning in two days. 

Holmes started when I appeared in his room as he prepared to retire; both of us were in our night-clothes. 

"I have no wish to have my sleep disrupted tonight," I said lightly, and took the place I had taken the night before. 

He exhaled a short laugh. He got into the bed, and as he put out the lamp, he said, "This will be a fine experiment, Watson." So he had been having these nightmares every night. I moved closer to him, to reassure him with my presence even while he slept. What surprised me was when he moved directly against me, so that we wound up in the same embrace that I had offered him before. "I will completely ensure that I am not visited by Reichenbach tonight," he said, laughing. 

I lay there, and let the warmth inside me fill me to tightness. He was right; how could he plummet into the cataract with his friend holding him safe? 

And if what happened that night was a change in how we regarded each other, it was a change in degree and expression only. 

The love I felt surely translated into the embrace I held him in; perhaps it was the same thing I felt with him, in the way he held to me. No mere banishing of nightmares accounted for the way we moved together, or for the last words we said before we completed all expressions of our regard. 

His voice was a hoarse whisper, close to my ear, and choked with vehemence. "John. I–I have never loved–" 

I held him even tighter, and said thickly, "I do not ask for love..." 

In the end, what we found sufficed. 

And our holiday in Cornwall was consummated.

**Author's Note:**

> My first SH slash story. This originally appeared in the British zine UNCHARTED WATERS 9 in 1992.


End file.
